


Casting Agents and Cowgirls

by cm (mumblemutter)



Series: Our Phobias Perfectly Fit [2]
Category: Interpol
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-21
Updated: 2008-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 10:56:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not-so-random outtakes from a hooker/cop/killer AU. Warnings apply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Casting Agents and Cowgirls

**a prostitute is far more likely to have sex with an officer of the law than be arrested by one**

(the paperwork's always a bitch and getting off is a far better time)

Beckett was one of those guys that knew everyone and everything that went down in the city, and at some point he'd gone from the guy that Paul busted but never turned in for dealing to the guy that fed him most of his high - "You get a special Boys In Blue discount, dude." Paul couldn't decide if he liked him or not; he was certainly charming enough, but the streets were filled with charming psychopaths and Beckett always set his hackles up, laid-back smile notwithstanding.

He opened the door and Paul said, "Hey, B. Nice suit you have on there. Did you just return from a funeral?"

"As a matter of fact my sister just died."

"Oh hey man, I'm sorr-"

"Naw, I'm just messing with you. I'm an only child. What it is, is that Carlotta over here is trying to, how'd you put it, babe?"

"Make you look like less of a loser skank," said the skinny naked chick sitting on the couch, tapping a needle to get the air out. She barely looked up at Paul before she went back to getting her fix ready.

"Yeah, but she'd used bigger words originally. Carlotta, this is Paul. Paul, uh."

"Carlotta. Hey."

"Dude, you want a beer?" Beckett said. "Make yourself comfortable. Have a seat. I'll get you the beer, plus some sweet weed I got from the Valley."

"The Valley?"

"Yeah, those middle-class housewives, they make the best shit, I don't even like thinking about it gets me depressed." Beckett's smile was wide and amazingly pretty. Paul generally never noticed, but with Beckett it was hard not to, especially with him all cleaned up like that.

Paul sat down next to Carlotta, watched as she shot herself up. Eventually she opened her eyes again and turned to him. "Roll up your sleeve."

He was already shaking his head no, but Beckett returned with the beer and said, "Don't bully the man, Carlotta. He doesn't poke things into his body."

"Snort, swallow, smoke, that's my motto."

"That's a ridiculous motto. Roll up your sleeve." It wasn't really a request, so Paul did exactly as she said. The junk hit him like a tidal wave, and he barely noticed that at one point Carlotta had started running her fingers through his hair. By the time he did, she'd stopped and was just staring at him like he was a curious lab animal.

"William," Paul said seriously. "Your whore seems to be fixated on me."

Beckett only laughed, and muttered something that might've been "Not mine, thank god." but then Carlotta was in his lap, twisting her hips just so, and he forgot that Beckett was there. Somehow he ended up flat on his back, with her riding him slowly and smoking a joint. She'd lean down, occasionally, put it to his mouth for him to inhale, and after a while he just drifted away, sunk down into sweat and heat and dizzy, tired euphoria.

When he woke up, he found himself handcuffed to the couch leg; Carlotta clothed and sitting cross-legged on the floor, idly going through his wallet with long, manicured hands. "What the fuck. Where's Beckett."

"Gone. Probably to traumatize more of his kids. He left me to look after you, and yet somehow managed to neglect to inform me that you were five-o."

"I bet William neglects to tell you a lot of things. Now if you would un-cuff me, please."

"No, I don't think so." Her lips curled up into an unpleasant sneer. "I detest cops."

Paul rolled his eyes. "You're a junkie whore. I'm entirely sure you do. I'm also entirely sure you'll hate us far, far more if you don't fucking un-cuff me now."

"Considering that you're the one currently immobilized, I would have to say that I am awash with trepidation. I'm also rather disinclined to free you, considering how pleasant your disposition is."

"Oh Jesus Christ a whore with a fucking thesaurus." Paul tried, unsuccessfully, to free himself from the cuffs, but only ended up with bruised wrists and a burgeoning headache. The headache meant his high was wearing off, which was a fucking shame since if he were going to end up cuffed to a couch with some cop-hating whore, at the very least he wanted to be wasted.

"I assume that since Beckett and you are such good friends he's going to be free to beat down on all the hustlers he wants? How sweet. My tax dollars at work."

"I very much doubt that you pay taxes. As for Beckett, it's none of your business and you would be better off shutting up about it."

Carlotta snapped his wallet shut and threw it onto his chest. She got to her feet in one smooth motion and said, "He'll be back in a few hours. Perhaps. In the meantime, enjoy his hospitality. It was nice meeting you, Paul Julian Banks."

It took exactly five hours and fifteen minutes before Beckett returned. Paul knew because he started watching the clock from the second that Carlotta closed the door behind her. By that point he couldn't feel his arms, his headache had turned into a full blown migraine that would probably not leave him for the next two days, and he badly needed to pee. "Your girl is a cunt," he told Beckett, after he'd been freed and managed to work enough circulation into his arms to relieve himself without being embarrassing.

"Like I said, man. Not my girl. She only shows up for the weed, always brings primo smack with her though. Doesn't like being managed, got ambition. Sorry about the uh - she's allright, once you get to know her, honestly."

"I'm sure she is." Paul said. "If you see her again, send her my regards. Tell her I'll be looking out for her."

**the world's oldest profession deserves a lot more respect than it gets**

_(He sat in her boudoir while she freshened up, boy drank all that magnolia wine  
On her black satin sheets is where he started to freak, yeah)_

He was ordering his usual coffee and burger to go from a diner that opened twenty-four hours, food was bad but the coffee was strong and bitter at least, caught the sleek dark head sitting in the corner only because as wasted as he always was, he was never not on edge. Carlotta, his brain supplied, overly helpful. Five fucking hours, and he was sliding across from her and offering her a brilliant smile before she even registered him stalking over. "Carly, right," he said cheerfully, and she closed the book she was reading with an audible snap, made to get up. "Sit," he said, and when she continued to try to leave he said, "You fucking sit," again, and she gave up, rolled her eyes dramatically and made a show of crossing her arms to glare at him.

"Don't you have other innocent citizens to harass, cop? I'm busy."

"Reading, yes. I see that. I'm amazed you can read. Your type isn't generally known for their literary pursuits." He pulled the book towards him and read the title, out of idle curiosity more than anything else. "Buber, huh?"

"Go fuck yourself."

"Actually, I thought maybe I'd fuck you instead."

Carlotta started laughing, but she stopped when she realized he wasn't kidding. "No amount of money," she said slowly, enunciating every word. "None."

"How about I bring you in?"

"For what? Sitting in a diner having coffee and reading a book?" But it was mostly bluster, and they both knew that. No-one wanted a cop with a personal vendetta against them making their lives miserable. The thing about Carly though, somehow she made defeat seem not so much her losing as her offering him victory because she was feeling particularly generous. He followed her out into night, accepted her "My apartment's nearby," without question, and when Paul shut the door behind them both she spun around suddenly and threw her dress over her head. Tall and naked save for stilettos and stockings, she was angry as fuck and only said flatly, "Can I read while you fuck me? Or watch tv? I don't want to miss this episode of my favorite show."

"If you can do that while you're on your knees and sucking me off, sure."

But she lay down on the bed and spread her legs instead, offering him a too thin expanse of pale skin and just the barest hint of soft dark curls, and Paul decided to get on his own knees and drag her towards him, hook her high-heeled legs over his shoulder. It seemed to amuse her until her laid his hand on her flat belly and bent his head. "Everyone thinks that they're the fuckin' - oh, you. Fuck." She snapped her mouth shut resolutely, but it was too late, he could taste her, hot and already wet against his mouth.

He fucked her when she was on the verge of coming, slid into her slow and steady, watched as their bodies melded together. Her hand on his chest, he hadn't bothered to take his clothes off so she tugged on his tie and wrapped it around a hard fist. "Banks," she said, and it was enough to almost send him over the edge. He shut his eyes instead, concentrated on breathing, on a rhythm, and somewhere along the way he felt her come, legs pressing around him, and somewhere along the way, although he couldn't quite remember getting there, he came too.

He passed out with one arm draped heavily around her shoulders, and when he woke up she was sitting on the bed, legs crossed and with his gun in her lap. Deja vu, all over again. He tried lifting his hands, was grateful that he could. She noticed though, and she smiled, and then she was straddling him and his gun was jammed in his throat. "Bang," she said softly. "Do you think anyone would miss you if I pulled the trigger right now? Waste of space that you are."

"Perhaps. I thought you might." He ignored the gun, crept his hand up her narrow waist to settle in between her breasts. "Wouldn't you?"

The smile she gave him was strange and it flickered out before he could figure out what it was. "I am not your whore," was all she said, and the sound of the safety clicking back on was as harsh as the expression on her face. Paul took the gun from her; it felt curiously warm in his hands. "But I'll give you that blowjob now if you want."

_Things are getting desperate  
When all the boys can't be men  
Everybody knows  
I'm her friend  
Everybody knows  
I'm her man_

_Dengler_, the rap sheet threw up when he ran her prints. Strange, but it fitted. He disappeared for two weeks once on a bad bender that didn't even leave room for his now regular fuck until he'd remembered her address again and gone knocking on her door. Her face oddly blank after they'd done it and she was straddling him, running her hand through his hair, "I thought you'd finally kicked it. Someone told me you'd ODed."

"The rumors of my demise are exaggerated as usual." He grabbed her wandering fingers and put his mouth to the inside of her wrist, felt the pulse beat in time to his heart.

"Shame," she said, but she didn't pull away when he slid his hand along her collarbone and ran his thumb down her long, pale throat. Instead she reached into her bag and took out a stick of lipstick, scrawled something on his chest in a dark shade of red. "My number," she said, and he didn't tell her that he already knew her number, but she rolled her eyes at the expression on his face and said, "This is my cell. It's not registered under my name so your fucking police won't have it." She frowned. "You're a fucking wreck. I've met homeless alkies with less problems than you. Most of them have better skin, too."

Paul wrapped his arms around her waist and she allowed him to pull her down, nestled her head in the crook of his shoulder. "I love getting advice from a crack whore, I really do," he said, sleepily and softly, and when she didn't respond he yawned and tightened his grip.

**there are only two reasons why people commit crimes: money and sex**

(he was always unimpressed by money, and as for sex, it's just another high)

In a darkened corner of a club Carlotta was in his lap, giving him a half-hearted lapdance which mostly amounted to her squirming around, bored and letting the friction between their bodies do the work on keeping his hard-on there. Paul let her pour straight shots of whiskey down his throat, threw his head back to swallow and she licked whatever spilled out of his mouth like a fastidious cat. "Carly," he said at one point, and then her hand was down his pants and he stopped talking for a while. Forgot, even, why he was here, until she left to go to the bathroom, "Don't go, babe," and she rolled her eyes and stormed off. Paul watched her for a while, until someone clapped him on the back.

"That slice that just left," Moreno always seemed wasted, but he never was. Always on the straight and narrow, but he'd never cared before what Paul did or who he chose to stick his dick into before. "Carlotta something right?"

"Yeah, what."

"Ballbreaker. You're fucking her? Christ, Banks, you got some cajones you know that? I heard she sliced the prick open of some John just because he tried to grab her tits one time."

"Carlotta?" Paul shrugged, tried to think of something to say. "She's allright."

"Just keep her teeth away from your prick, okay? I can't have my partner wandering around as an Eunuch. It just won't work."

"I'll keep that in mind," Paul said, then nodded his head in the direction of the mark. "Are we here to do our jobs or what?"

"Hey, I'm not the one dry-fucking crazy-ass whores while on duty. Come on."

Three hours later and a whole host of people in the back-seat of black-and-blues waiting to be carted off, and Paul had paperwork to do, but instead he swung by Carlotta's, put up with her three hour lecture on the futility of the Drug War and how it, and not the drugs themselves, were destroying their country, until she petered out, or lost interest, and started eying him speculatively instead. Paul leaned against the door and tried to look bored when she unbuttoned her dress and let it fall to the floor. He managed, he thought, pretty well, until she got onto the bed and spread her legs. "C'mere," she said, and it was an order. Paul lit another cigarette instead, ignored her until she started fingering herself, leisurely at first, until her eyes darkened and her head fell back onto the bed.

Paul grabbed her hand and she gasped, said without opening her eyes, "You're spoiling all my fun." He only kissed her fingers though, opened his mouth so she could slide them in, her on his tongue and on his teeth and on his lips, all salt and scent and dusk. "Fuck," she said, when he slid into her later, hard and fast and slick like her hands on his waist and arms and everywhere else, because a bust always got him high and wanting to do nothing but this, over and over again. "You're a dirty cop," she said, or gasped, at one point, into his neck. "A dirty fuck," and it was true, and he always felt exposed with her, sliced open and laid bare for all to see: his flaws and his addictions and his hypocrisy and sometimes they all lined up in his head, everyone he'd ever busted or turned or fucked over, all of them, silently accusing him and judging him for his myriad crimes, and when Carlotta came, when she started making those noises in the back of her throat like she always did, Paul held her down and he held her down and for that one brief moment, everything washed away.

"I need to get the fuck out of vice," he said later, when he'd collapsed onto her and he felt boneless and free. "I need to."

"Yeah, you do that," Carlotta replied, and pushed him off to reach out for her gear. "You do that."

_Perhaps I think too much of sex,  
that garment we're left holding  
while pale and furious love  
dives away from us in the dark_

When Carlotta talked about sex Paul half expected her to take out a calculator to measure the exact amount of pressure and pull and push needed to reach optimum levels of sexual pleasure in the minimum amount of time; he would lie in bed sometimes, on the verge of passing out from sex or drugs or both, just drifting and listening to her ramble on to some other whore friend of hers or another. Carlotta liked an audience that would at the very least pretend to be interested in what she had to say. Once, after one of her "friends" had finally left - a girl Paul only vaguely recognized by voice as someone he'd fucked a while back who'd given him a case of the clap that made him almost decide to renig on his promise not to haul her in - he'd finally felt brave enough to crack open one eye and blink at her.

"What?" she said.

Paul yawned and rolled over onto his back. "Sex is a science now? Are we studying the Kama Sutra? Is there a section on how to make sure your cunt doesn't get too loose from selling your body, your temple, for twenty bucks and an ounce of smack?"

"No, but I believe that there's a section on how to placate junkie cops when they feel insecure about their sexual prowess with false assurances to boost their fragile egos. That section's my bible, more or less."

"You constantly calling me a prick is supposed to be assuring?"

"I never said I was referring to you." She paused from washing the dishes. Carlotta liked taking out china and making little cups of tea laced with brandy when she had company. Paul bought her the set she was using now because he'd broken the last set by clumsily stumbling into the table; he'd had his mother ship it over, was vaguely surprised when she assumed he was giving it as a gift to his girlfriend's parents. "I am one hundred percent for real when it comes to you, baby." She sneered and waved her gloved hands around in an exaggerated display of sincerity, and Paul couldn't help but laugh. He was still sleepy, but he held out his arm to her anyway.

"Come here then, and show me some of your mathematically proven skills." Not that he didn't already know that Carlotta gave head like the pro that she was. He put his fingers on the nape of her neck as she unbuttoned his jeans. Not hard just yet, until she took him into her mouth, and then he was. And fuck but he couldn't figure out what exactly it was that she did that made it so spectacular, wondered, briefly, if everyone she fucked felt the exact same way, but then those types of thoughts were always circular and useless, so he just closed his eyes instead and let her work. When he came it was with a sigh, and Carlotta always hated to swallow so he said, "I'm gonna," and she lifted her head so he could finish in her hand instead, and he didn't need to look at her to know that she was staring at him, watching him be open-mouthed and unguarded.

He wasn't high, he realized, and that was fucking rough, so he said, "Fix me up," and exposed the inner fold of his arm to her. The palm that she slid up his skin was warm and wet, and he wanted to say, _that's kind of gross, C_, but he wasn't in the mood for another two hour discussion over this, and besides, she soon followed it with her tongue, trailing a smooth path up to his elbow. He flinched he when she reached the tracks that were now almost constantly bruising his skin - he used to think that this was a milestone, the point of no-return, when you could actually see the evidence of how far he'd gone and that's why he told himself he didn't shoot up, but then again it was pretty obvious to anyone with half a brain who looked at him that he was a wreck - the alcohol made him fat and soft and lazy, and he sometimes pictured himself working graveyard, middle aged spread and gun that he'd forgotten how to use and every case a wash - and it was better to live like this; he felt louche, decadent almost, loose-limbed and unwound on Carlotta's bed.

"It's raining," she said at some point, and she sounded almost surprised. Paul wasn't sure why; it always looked like rain, and more often than not the sky made good on its promise to drench the city. He watched as she put out her gear, her movements efficient and sparse, and he wanted to resent how her body was nothing but angular lines and naturally lean muscles and the way she carried even the marks of addiction well; but then addiction wasn't the word he'd use for her - she wasn't a junkie, as much as he enjoyed calling her one. Half-truths and vague defense mechanisms, and when she smiled and slid the needle into his vein he ran his thumb along her lower lip, watched as the smile faded slowly away.

"Come here," he said, and his voice was gruff, as if he hadn't used it in years. She looked away though, shook her head no. Carlotta was good at fucking, good at talking philosophy and going on about the base instincts of their desires, but she was never any good at any of this. It comforted him, somehow, that they were both equally fucked up when it came to wanting, or assuming that they deserved no more than this. But maybe they got it in any case, despite themselves, and the thought made him shudder and want to rear back, only the junk hit him, and instead he dragged her up with slightly more force than necessary, wrapped an arm around her thin shoulders. She only relaxed into him though, and her bones felt light and fragile, everything she wasn't, everything she could never be. "I want," he whispered, and he kissed the side of her neck. There was no response so he cradled her head with his hands.

**we are trapped in the belly of the machine, and the machine is bleeding to death**

_(Crawling down the alley on your hands and knees  
I'm sure you're not protected, for it's plain to see  
The diamond dogs are poachers and they hide behind trees  
Hunt you to the ground they will, mannequins with kill appeal)_

She showed up at his apartment one night, three am and he'd just managed to lull himself to sleep when she started knocking on his door. "This better be fucking good, Carly," he said, but then he peered closer at her and saw her face. "What the fuck happened to you? John?"

"Why does everyone always assume it's a John when I'm not turning tricks anymore?" She pushed past him imperiously and threw her bag and coat onto his couch.

"Come in, why don't you. Make yourself at home. And I assume it's because once a whore always a whore?"

"I need a fucking drink." And her face collapsed suddenly, and she hugged herself, and Paul nodded his head.

When he returned with the glass of scotch she was curled up on the couch, photo frame in his hand. "She's pretty. Abigail, right."

"Abbey," Paul said, and took the picture from her, replacing it with the drink that she downed desperately before handing the glass back to him. "Don't touch my stuff. I like to keep my apartment clean." But Carlotta here made him awkward and unsure. As if he was the one that didn't belong here and not her. Belly up and soft and exposed because the architecture of her beliefs left his own floundering in a sea of disbelief that not even the drugs could wipe away. It drove him crazy. "You drive me crazy," he said, but Carlotta didn't seem to hear him.

"Bet your girl decorates too. This place doesn't look like it has even the slightest hint of your personality. Although perhaps that's for the best. I've seen the places you shack up in."

"She decorated it because it's our apartment."

"But she's not here."

"No, she's in Europe, working on a - oh fuck it's none of your business. The less you know about her the better."

"I'm hardly going to be the person that will shatter your delusion of domestic bliss. You will do that well enough yourself in time. Get me another drink."

"No," Paul said, and he sat down next to her. She seemed strange, small and distant and drawn in on herself. He couldn't take it; Carlotta was always larger than life, no matter what. It wasn't the first time that he'd seen her with bruises, she'd always brushed them off and snapped that Paul should see the other guy, and he never pressed because it happened so rarely and in any case he believed her when she said that she'd come away the victor of the fight. Paul put the empty glass on the table and ran his palm up long legs to settle at her waist, rubbing aimlessly because he wasn't certain what to do. She only sighed though, and sunk down further into the couch, and everything about her was sharp and angular save for her lips and the faint swell of her breasts. "Carly," he said, and when she gave him no response he pulled off her knee high boots, one by one, slid the zipper down the black leather. He ankles were as narrow as the rest of her, the gartered dark stockings she wore only served to make the rest of her skin more pale. Luminous, almost, and he massaged her feet through the soft silk, his hands felt rough and awkward on her flesh. Carlotta kept her eyes shut, and at some point he crawled up her body and he didn't think she would but she did, allowed him to move her limbs until she was on her back and he was settled in-between her thighs, her skirt hiked up around her waist. Her panties he hooked with his thumbs and slid down past her hips, lifted his own so he could maneuver them off. Not a word, and he asked, "Are you high?" She shook her head no, and he said, "Me neither. Fuck."

He kept a stash in the apartment, carefully hidden from Abbey, who already stared at him suspiciously and always initiated conversations that ended up strained and drawn out and made him feel vaguely guilty, as if he were letting her down in some immeasurable, irreconcilable way. She was already leaving, he could feel her slip further away each time she went out of town and came back happy, turning cold and distant when she realized he hadn't changed, he was still a royal fuck-up with a jones and a dead-end job. "I'll go hook us up," he told Carlotta, but her yes was ambivalent at best, and in the end he didn't move, just sunk down on top of her. Ran his fingers experimentally across the bruise on her cheek. The flesh felt loose and tender and liquid underneath a thin film of skin. Carlotta hissed, and Paul breathed, "Motherfucker," but she only lifted her chin resolutely and remained silent. Sometimes, rarely, Paul looked at her and was reminded of the awkward, gangly teenager she must have been once. What he'd managed to dig up about her was a-typical, parents who worked borderline blue-collar administrative jobs, two brothers. Unpopular in high school, he didn't have to check that one to figure it, a lifetime of insecurities buried deep enough that no-one noticed unless you were looking deep enough, or found it reflected in your own. He knew, he got her, most of the time, even when he didn't.

"So are you going to fuck me or are you planning on us cuddling?" Carlotta looked bored, but her fingers were tightly gripped on his shoulders, and she was rocking slightly against him.

"I was thinking perhaps we could spoon. Hold hands maybe, watch a rom com. It's three fucking am, Carl. I apologize for not being a wound up toy ready for action twenty-four seven." But he was already half hard, and when she slid one hand down his chest he raised his hips automatically so she could stroke him. "Fuck," he said. "Fuck."

"Hard," she said. "Harder," but he went slow instead, pushed her clothes off until she was in nothing but her stockings and heels. Traced his fingers across every inch of bare skin he could find until he'd wiped all expression off her face and she was trembling, shaking with need. He fucked her then, and he was too exhausted to do more than shimmy against her and she didn't seem to care either, they just pressed against each other until Paul was nothing but languid, muted desire, drifting pleasantly on the edge of sleep. Carlotta sighed, and draped her arms lazily around him.

In the end, hours later, in seemed, the sun had started to rise, he forced himself up and her with him, to the bedroom. Carlotta collapsed on the bed and fell asleep almost immediately, but when Paul pressed a kiss to her shoulder she half-opened her eyes. "You want to tell me, what went down?" she shook her head. "Okay," Paul said.

_everybody knows except those foolish enough to believe in love: the party always ends badly and someone always bleeds_

("Sometimes paranoia's just having all the facts.")

She was in her regular corner of the diner, book and coffee on hand. Paul slid in across from her and said, "That's the same book. Are you certain you're reading it?"

"Studying, not reading. I'm-"

"Whatever. I'm hungry. I ordered a burger. You want one?"

She shook her head no and he crossed his arms, leaned back into the seat. "So listen, apparently they pulled Beckett out of a dumpster down on fifth."

"Beckett?"

"Yeah. Beckett. Surely you remember him. I know you remember him."

Carlotta paled slightly. "Not that well. He was a jerk. More your type of person than anyone else."

"Carly." Paul leaned forward and grabbed hold of her wrist. "Do not jerk me around as if I'm some sort of punk. I'm still police, and I can still put two and two together, and everyone fucking talks, okay. I need to know-"

"You need to know nothing because there's nothing to tell. Let go of me." She pulled forcefully away from him and said, "This conversation is over. All of this, this is over."

Paul let her grab her coat and stumble out of the diner, and afterwards he went out and he got so wasted he ended up unable to move on the floor of his bathroom and wondering if he was going to die. The only reason he didn't was most likely out of spite.

_sometimes the walls crack and their senses turn upside down. they kiss then, like lovers do. sing a love song while holding hands on the beach, and she turns to him, the wind driving her black hair into her face, and says nothing._

(is prostitution, the reduction of the most intimate act between two people to a quantifiable amount, a debasement and violation of something sacred, or it just admitting that we're all animals underneath.)

_we're shooting the scene where i swallow your heart and you make me  
spit it up again. i swallow your heart and it crawls  
right out of my mouth.  
you swallow my heart and flee, but i want it back now, baby. i want it back.  
lying on the sofa with my eyes closed, i didn't want to see it this way,  
everything eating everything in the end.  
we know how the light works,  
we know where the sound is coming from.  
verse. chorus. verse.  
i'm sorry. we know how it works. the world is no longer mysterious._

There was a whore giving head to some John in the alley that Paul had stumbled into to throw up what was left of his dinner. It took him a second to recognize the black hair and thin frame - even on her knees, Carlotta kept her spine ramrod straight. "Hey," Paul said, and the John looked up.

"Fuck off," he said. Carlotta barely even acknowledged his presence, gave him a distracted glance before turning back to the John.

"Okay," Paul said, and when Carlotta came out of the alley, smacking gum and shoving cash into her bra, he was waiting by his car. He beckoned her over and she ambled towards him, all self satisfied flush and swollen lips. The smile on her face faded though as she walked closer. "Paul, I-"

"Carl," Paul said brightly, and he wrapped his arms around her, ignored her startled snort and her frame stiffening against his. She leaned away when he kissed her on the cheek and tried to back off, but the handcuffs had already been in his hand, he snapped one around her wrist and spun her around to do the other.

"What the - what the fuck are you doing?"

"Arresting you, what does it look like I'm doing." He spun her back towards him and she stumbled on high heels until he pushed her heavily into the door.

"For what?"

"Um, soliciting? I'm amazed you're even asking this question. I would arrest you for being a cunt too but unfortunately that's not a crime. Now be a dear and get in the car." Instead of doing that though, she tried to run, so Paul had to grab her and drag her in. She kicked out at him as he shoved and somehow the flat of her heel hit him smack on the jaw. "You fucking bitch," and she snarled when he grabbed her legs, and a mess of tangled limbs and they both ended up in the backseat of the car, Carlotta's head hit the windowpane at some point with a soft thunk and that's when Paul finally got her held down, both of them breathless and panting. "Fucking bitch," he repeated, and his jaw hurt like a motherfucker.

But then Carlotta started yelling, rolled her eyes at him before she opened her mouth and wow could she scream when she wanted to. And amazingly enough some moron was dumb enough to respond, in this city, who knew Samaritans still existed, he leaned into the open car and asked hesitantly, "What's going on here. Mam, you okay."

Carlotta abruptly shut her trap, but she didn't say anything so Paul calmly took out his badge, waved it in the general direction of the man's face and said "Police business. Everything's fine, sir. Please move on." Even in the barely lit street the guy paled, and he stumbled away, muttering a hasty apology under his breath. Paul slammed the car door shut and turned back to Carlotta once he was gone. "What the fuck was that for?"

"Your abuse of power is atrocious. Why on earth anyone ever deigned you fit to wear a badge is utterly confounding. Now get the fuck off of me, you fuck." She started struggling again, but it was over almost as quickly as it began, Carlotta was skinny to begin with and her adrenalin-fueled strength wasn't enough to keep Paul from easily holding her down until she gave up. Eventually he put his hands underneath her ribs and pushed her up, so she was properly jammed in between the door and him, his body tight against hers, and he was moaning before he even realized how fucking hard he was, how her skirt was pushed up around her waist. Everything still and strange and he pressed his cock against her thigh but she stiffened, said, "Are you planning on arresting me or fucking me? Because I don't see you driving us down to the station for processing."

"Perhaps I'll do both. The night is still young." Paul slid his hand under her shirt and cupped her breast. "You have the right to remain silent," he breathed, and brushed his thumb across her nipple so her breath hitched. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

She said, "At least uncuff me," when he fumbled for his belt and zipper. "Come on, you poisonous cokehead waste of space, fucking uncuff me," but he thrust himself in her instead and she groaned and he couldn't tell if she was pushing towards him or trying to get away but he didn't care, his head was spinning and she was hot and tight and he pressed the heel of his palm against her throat, and he only stopped when she whimpered, "Please", sank back into the seat to blink sweat from his eyes so he could see her properly.

"What, are you done?"

"Oh, I haven't even started yet." He watched as she awkwardly raised herself into sitting position, and then he dangled the cuff keys in front of her face. "Open. There. You can go. Or," he grabbed her by the arms and pulled her into his lap. "You can stay."

"Why would I want to stay." Her words were surprisingly clear despite the keys in her mouth. Paul only brushed her hair gently off her face, and when he could see her eyes he gripped her waist and pushed her back down into him, all slippery wet softness and warmth.

"Because," he said, and he let his arms fall away from her so she was free to leave.

She continued to glare, but then she leaned forward, and Paul opened his own mouth instinctively. The keys were still cold, the taste of metal made him wince. "Because," she echoed, and when she moved he moaned, heat like a glove and he had his arms around his waist and he was pulling her in as she rode him and at some point he felt the keys drop wetly from his lips but he didn't care and when he felt her start to shudder, hiss obscenities against his neck, he shook hard and then he came.

When he finally found the keys on the floor of the car and he got around to unlocking her cuffs she rubbed her wrists and stared mutinously at him. "I've drive you home," he said, and put his practiced look of picture perfect guilelessness to use.

Carlotta said, "I wish I could knock that ridiculous expression of yours off your face with a bat."

**you don't mean nothing at all to me  
you could be everything to me  
if only -**

_(She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness.)_

She said, "I don't want to see you, not ever again."

"That's not your choice. You don't get to decide-"

"Don't fuck with me, Banks. There are places that neither one of us need to go." She looked tired, and weary, and for once, fucking sorry, as if she meant it. Paul rubbed his wrist and turned away, flinched at the sound of the car-door opening and shutting quietly.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> \- _lady marmalade_, the supremes  
> \- _raspberry swirl_, tori amos  
> \- _swimming_, andrew greig  
> \- _east hastings_, godspeed! you black emperor  
> \- _diamond dogs_, david bowie  
> \- william s. burroughs  
> \- _crush_, richard siken  
> \- _say it right_, nelly furtado  
> \- oscar wilde


End file.
